


Broken Records

by sunniskies



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Louis is a really good friend, M/M, Sad Harry, but also fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunniskies/pseuds/sunniskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry wonders if there's a time limit on pain that doesn't apply to him. Because as much as he tries to move on, his heart is still pieces of broken glass. </p><p>Louis barrels into Harry's life with sparkling eyes and a laugh as bright as the sun. But Harry doesn't know if he has anything left to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Records

**Author's Note:**

> fictional, i own nothing :)

 

Harry’s always trying to make his mind blank, like this morning while he sorts through the record rack at Strings. The music store where he works often seems like the only solid ground in his life, everything else is like quicksand has to fight against not to drown in echoing thoughts. _Nothing stays the same--_ he feels it aching in his bones, remembers it when he’s trying to drift off to sleep, wakes up to it when he’s hunched over his soggy bowl of cheerios. His head spins, having that on repeat.  

His eyes catch on an old copy of _One of These Nights_ by the Eagles, and he tugs the record from the box. He skims his thumbs over the worn cover, feeling the grooves and scratches of the case under his touch. It feels used. A smile plays at the corner of his mouth when he finds music like that, like it was someone’s favorite album. It might have been spinning while someone had their first kiss that meant something, it might have lulled someone to sleep every night after work. Harry doesn’t think about how the record is just lying here in a box in the corner now. Everything gets used and then left behind. 

“Harry, customer!” interrupts a voice behind him, and he snaps around to his manager rolling his eyes and gesturing toward a short brunette leaning on the checkout counter. Harry thinks his manager Jeb looks a bit like a young Ozzy Osburne, with long black hair and a ratty scarf tying it back. Harry likes him. 

He ambles over to the counter after hastily shoving the Eagles record back, greeting the customer who’s got his fingers drumming impatiently against the countertop. The guy’s bright-faced and fidgety, maybe a few years older than Harry, with auburn hair swooping over his forehead in a smooth fringe. Harry might’ve thought him cute, if things were different. If his head wasn’t a broken record player. 

The guy smiles at Harry, and pushes his fringe back with a finger in what seems habit. “Just wanted to buy this,” he smirks, holding up a copy of Britney Spears’ _Femme Fatale._

Harry can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the blonde staring seductively from the cover. “Really?” he asks, because honestly, _Britney Spears_?  

“Hey, I thought you were supposed to be ringing me up, not judging my music choices,” the brunette laughs. “But it’s for my sister, in any case.” 

Harry smiles back and grabs the album to check out. “Sorry. You just didn’t strike me as the Britney type.” 

“Really,” the guy says, raising his eyebrows. “So what type do I seem like to you?” he teases, winking a blue eye at Harry. 

Harry blushes crimson and fumbles putting the CD in a bag. “I--oh, uh, I dunno-,” he stutters, ducking his head. 

The brunette throws his head back and laughs loudly. “Hey, it’s ok. I was just joking around. I’m Louis, by the way”. 

“I’m Harry,” he hands the bag over as Louis gives him the cash, still slightly pink. Their hands brush as Louis reaches for the bag and Harry starts involuntarily at the touch. 

Louis is staring at him, his eyes somehow softer now, not laughing anymore. “It’s nice to meet you, Harry,” he says, and his words sound heavy, like it’s important.  

The piercing eyes on him bring back that quicksand feeling for Harry, and he puts a hand on the counter just to have something anchoring him. “Yeah, you too. Have a good one!” he says, flashing his best dimpled smile. It’s a conversation ender, he knows, but his head is whirling and he can’t talk right now. Louis stares at him for another beat and then just grins again and heads out, tossing a “thanks!’ over his shoulder. 

Harry wanders back off to the record section, the small shop quiet save U2 echoing in the speakers and Jeb rearranging posters in back. Sometimes Harry thinks he likes the records so much because they’re all about the past. They’re the same as they were 40 years ago, except maybe some scratches. Sometimes the past is easier than the present. Harry guesses he lives in the past. As he picks up an old Styx album and traces the faded colors, he decides that’s ok with him. 

 

+++

 

The rest of Harry’s day passes in stops and starts. Time’s always jumping for him--he’ll be staring at a poster of Ringo for minutes and then suddenly he’s crouched over checking prices for guitars. The moments in between are blurry. Harry doesn’t want his days to drift like this but it’s hard when he feels like he’s slipping between moments with nothing to hold onto.   

Unloading a shipment of sheet music is Harry’s task the next morning. He falls into a calm rhythm, ripping the plastic off each booklet and organizing them neatly on the shelves. Rhythms are easy. He doesn’t need to think. 

When the shop door jingles, he doesn’t look around from his position kneeling in front of the metal shelves. Harry often wonders how Jeb keeps the shop running, they hardly get more than three of four visitors each day. Mostly young grungy types and grandmas who wandered in accidently. He likes the quiet, though. 

Someone taps Harry on the shoulder and he nearly jumps out of his skin, whacking his wrist on the shelf as he spins around. 

“Woah, sorry,” laughs Louis, sapphire eyes sparkling down at him. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. You alright?” 

Harry nods, chest still hammering, and rubs at his wrist tenderly. “It’s ok. Hi. Was just thinking.” 

“Yeah I can tell,” Louis chuckles, and plops down on the floor next to Harry, crossing his legs. “What’s up?” 

Harry just stares at him, the plastic hanging limply off the booklet half-opened in his hand. “Did you need help or something?” 

“Nah, I was just passing by and thought I’d pop in. Wanted to prove to you that I have musical tastes that extend beyond Britney.” Louis says casually, grabbing the sheet music from Harry’s hand and ripping the cellophane off. He arranges it on the shelf carefully, like he works there regularly. 

Harry is beginning to get that Louis isn’t the type of person who worries about what other people think of him. So Harry picks out another booklet to start unwrapping, and asks, “Really? What kind of music do you like then?” 

Louis leans back on heels and sighs as if he’s been asked to explain quantum theory. “Oh Harold, where shall I start?” 

“It’s just Harry.” 

Louis laughs. “I’m gonna call you Harold, mate. Anyway, like I was saying, I would have to say my favorite band is currently the Fray, although I do have strong leanings toward the Script. And Katy Perry isn’t half bad, either.” 

Louis’ voice dances in Harry’s ears like sunshine might, high and bright. He scrunches his nose at the bands. “That’s all pop stuff though. What about like classic rock?” 

“Ah I should have known you were a classic rock guy,” Louis says, nodding toward the worn KISS poster on the wall. “Came to the wrong place for my own _lowly_ tastes to be appreciated.” 

“Hey, I listen to some pop,” defends Harry. “Just the good stuff, like Adele y’know?” 

“Ugh she’s so whiny though,” Louis groans, but he’s grinning like he’s trying to egg Harry on. 

Harry crosses his arms. “I think you just don’t know good music,” he decides, leaning back and glaring at Louis. “I can play you some of my favorites, if you want?” he pauses, voice wavering thin at the edges. 

Louis’ smile washes over him like the ocean. “Bring it on, Harold. I want to hear whatever elitist shit you’re calling great music.” 

Harry rolls his eyes but laughs and pushes to his feet. He lopes over to the shop’s stereo, pulling out _Sticky Fingers_ by the Stones from the stack of CDs balanced precariously on top of the player. “This is the good stuff,” he calls to Louis as “Brown Sugar” starts reverberating around the store, the guitars swirling around Harry in a pattern he knows by heart. Louis just groans and shakes his head but he’s still smiling. 

Louis hangs around the shop for another hour, trailing Harry around and “helping” him work, which really just consists of aggressively distracting Harry from whatever he’s doing. They keep arguing about music throughout the morning and Harry tries futilely to educate Louis about the merits of classic rock. It’s weird, having someone to talk to, Harry’s been so used to swimming in his own thoughts. His head’s still a broken record but time at least is less blurry today; having Louis there gives him something solid to focus on. Harry stares every time Louis laughs. It’s bright and loud, like he wants everyone to hear it. 

 

+++

 

Louis stops by Strings  everyday for the rest of the week. Harry kind of thinks it’s weird, but it’s not like he’s overwhelmed with friends, so Louis being there is okay Even if he is sort of crazy and does things like accidentally send a whole CD shelf flying over because he wanted to show how he can juggle cassette tapes. Louis acts like he’s got some constant fire burning in him, a never ending need to be doing, talking, laughing. Harry could see how he might annoy other people with all that enthusiasm, but it pulls Harry up from the quicksand. Louis doesn’t mind that Harry gets quiet sometimes, he fills up the space for the both of them.  

Eventually Harry finds out that Louis is in uni studying marketing. _It’s god awful_ , he whines, but Harry could see how he’d be good at selling things. Louis makes everything around him gleam--he could probably make a grocery trip seem like a massive adventure. He always comes to shop between 10 and noon, in the break between Microeconomics and Business Strategy. Harry nods his head along while Louis complains about his mountains of work and the girl smacking gum next to him class and his professor who sweats too much through his suit. Louis could talk for ages, but Harry lets the rise and fall of his voice roll over him, and something about it relaxes him. Louis’ long winded stories of his crazy nights in uni make Harry’s head swirl with half-formed thoughts. He was supposed to go to uni. Before.

 Louis doesn’t ask, Harry’s glad. 

They had started off arguing about music but now they’ve moved on to clothing, hairstyles, and movies. Their opinions couldn’t really be more different on almost everything. Louis shows up in candy red pants with striped blue shirts for god’s sake. But it makes for fun conversation in any case and Louis has a way of saying ridiculous things that make Harry laugh so hard his stomach hurts. It’s been awhile since someone could make him laugh that much--awhile since he had a reason to laugh like that. 

  

+++ 

“It’s a classic!”  

“No it’s not,” Harry snorts. “ _Casablanca_ is classic. _Fight Club_ is classic. _The_ _Fast and the Furious_ is just another car-flipping exploding things Hollywood ploy.” 

“You know you sound about a hundred years old when you say things like that,” Louis rolls his eyes. 

“I’d rather be a geezer than have horrible taste in movies.” 

Louis sighs in mock disappointment. “Harold, I’m just going to have to prove this to you. This weekend we’re having a film night. You will watch _The Fast and the Furious_ and realize that there is more to it than setting Ferraris on fire.” 

Harry’s heart does an uncomfortable swoop, like he missed a step somewhere. It’s the first time Louis has mentioned hanging out outside of the store, even though they’ve known each other for weeks. Harry’s solid ground is the little pattern they’ve established and the easy rhythm they’ve fallen into. He stares down at his hands where he’s absently turning a Beatles album over and over. He doesn’t answer Louis, his head is blurry again.

“C’mon Haz, you owe it to me for rescuing you from sheer boredom all the days,” Louis teases, but his voice falls gentle at the edges. He tips Harry’s chin up with a finger and Harry jolts when those twinkling eyes smile at him. “Please?” 

“Alright,” Harry groans, swatting Louis’ hand away, but smiling. “It’ll have to be your place though. I’ve told you about my roommates.” 

“Perfect!” Louis whoops and hi-fives him. Harry lets a small laugh bubble out at Louis’ contagious excitement. He’s not quite like anyone else. 

 

+++ 

 

Harry’s hovering outside the door to Louis’ flat with a paper plate full of brownies. They’re still warm, he can feel the steam heating his palms through the plate. They looked so lovely when he pulled them from the oven all chocolatey brown, but now they look silly and crumbly, like something from a kid’s baking set. Baking’s his thing, baking and music, and he couldn’t take the whole music store so he brought brownies. It’s dumb though. What 18 year old brings brownies to hang out with his mate? He’s drifting again, and he can’t tell if he’s here standing on Louis’ stoop or somewhere else a million miles away.  

Time starts and stops, but eventually Harry pushes a cold finger to the buzzer. Hazy memories of a time when he’d pound on his friends doors, shouting and bouncing on the heels of his feet flit around the corners of his head.  He can’t get too lost in them, though, because there’s a  scurrying of steps and Louis flings the door open. “Harold!” he bursts and immediately grabs him roughly for a hug. Harry didn’t know they were at the hugging stage, but Louis smells like peppermint and soap, and it’s kind of nice. 

“I’m glad you came!” Louis grins, hands on Harry’s shoulders. “Are those brownies?” 

“Um, yeah, I dunno they’re just--” Harry fidgets with the sogging plate. 

“I fucking love brownies. How did you know? Cheers, mate” Louis laughs and grabs them, while playfully kicking Harry inside with a foot. Harry feels the chill drain from his bones and trails inside in Louis’ burning wake. 

Louis’ flat is small and pretty messy. There’s a gigantic pile of books and video games sprawled out in one corner of the living room, and Harry trips over an absurd number of half-laced shoes littering the entryway. The kitchen just to the right of the TV room clearly has a pile of dishes filling the sink, and there are some empty takeaway boxes sitting out on the table. It looks as if he’s tried to tidy up a bit however, because the couch is clean minus a towel drying over the back. 

“Welcome to my home,” says Louis, spreading his arms like he’s welcoming Harry to Buckingham Palace. “Small and quaint but a popular locale for good times.” 

Harry snorts at Louis but smiles anyway, kicking off his boots and padding over to the couch. For all its disarray, the flat warms Harry in the same way Louis’ laugh does. “Thanks again for inviting me over, Lou,” he says as Louis plops down next to him. The older boy’s already shoving two brownies into his mouth and Harry cracks up as he mumbles some unintelligible noises that might be “these are _amazing_ ”. 

They had decided it was only fair that they both got to pick a movie, so they start off watching _The Fast and the Furious_. It’s almost exactly how Harry predicted, there are lots of scenes with expensive cars careening down deserted streets, the usual hot girls, and a few explosions thrown in for good measure. He kind of wants to laugh at it all but Louis is totally absorbed in the film, making noises of surprise when a car bursts into flames even though he’s clearly seen this movie a thousand times over. It’s kind of endearing the way Louis still loves it so much. 

Harry’s choice for the night was _Amelie_ , and they pop it in after Harry concedes that _The Fast and the Furious_ was “entertaining,” and Louis beams like he’s won the lottery. The eclectic french love story is a total turnaround from frantic car chases, but they’re both getting sleepy from stuffing themselves with too many brownies, so it fits with the mood. Harry can’t help but sneak a glance over at Louis’ face during a few of his favorite scenes to judge his reactions. Somehow it’s really important to him that Louis likes the movie. 

By the time the end credits roll, Harry’s head has slipped down to Louis’ shoulder, and Louis has a few fingers idly running through his hair. Harry doesn’t move right away, savoring a few extra moments of the touch. He wishes he could bottle it up to keep forever--the grounded, safe feeling wrapping around him like a blanket. It’s been a long time. When he finally pulls his head up, Louis looks right at him, the blue light of the screen highlighting the curves of his face in profile. Harry thinks he catches something in Louis’ eyes, something different, but before he can figure it out Louis jumps up to flip on the lights and starts rambling about how much he actually liked _Amelie._

Harry stumbles into his shoes and after assuring Louis he’ll be plenty awake to make it home, heads off. He takes his time wandering down the starlit streets, the air blowing sharp and cold against his cheeks. His head feels like it’s slowly emptying out somehow. 

 

+++ 

 

Just like mornings at Strings, movie night just sort of becomes a thing for them. Every Friday Harry shows up at Louis flat, swearing it’s messier each time than the last. He usually brings some sort of baked good along, which Louis consistently devours, mumbling around crumbly mouthfuls of lemon bars that he should open a bakery. Harry just laughs but the way Louis gets his chin covered in powdered sugar makes him want to bake forever. They still trade off picking films, Louis usually going for Hollywood blockbusters, Harry carefully choosing his favorite critically acclaimed movies. Louis says he’s a movie snob, Harry says Louis hasn’t got any taste. They work, somehow. 

This particular night they start off watching Louis’ movie, _Bridget Jones’ Diary_. He’d been prattling on all week about how this particular chick flick was actually brilliant and Harry had just groaned because that’s the exact same thing Louis said about _The Ugly Truth._ But Harry brought _Goodfellas_ for them to watch afterwards, and he figures that ought to cancel out the cheesiness. 

Personal space seems never to have been an issue for the two of them, so Harry usually lets his long limbs sprawl out across the sofa with his head in Louis lap, and Louis gives him little shoulder massages or twirls Harry’s curls around his fingers while they watch the movies quietly. All of the tension that Harry’s got aching everywhere, even his fingertips, slowly drains when he’s with Louis, and time doesn’t spin circles. 

The movie is pretty bad. Two scenes in Harry can already tell Daniel is totally wrong for Bridget and she needs to end up with Mark. Honestly he doesn’t understand how Louis likes these things when you can guess the plot from a mile away. 

But then, half an hour later, his breath catches sharply in his chest. Bridget walks in on Mark with another woman, her face collapsing in devastation, and suddenly Harry wishes they were watching anything but this. _It’s just a stupid rom com_ he repeats in his head, trying to focus on the words, but his heart is dropping like he just fell down a flight of stairs, quicksand choking his lungs. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing tears away, but a few drops slide down his face into Louis lap anyway. He’s glad that he’s not facing Louis, and he stays completely still, trying to remember how to breathe. 

Louis shifts his legs mildly and starts rubbing at Harry’s shoulder, asking, “Hey, you ok? You’ve gone all stiff.” When Harry doesn’t answer, he pauses the movie and reaches down to tip Harry’s face toward him. “Harry? Hey...are you crying?” 

Tears are slipping out of Harry’s eyes in a steady stream now, his face glistening pale blue in the reflected light of the TV. Louis eyes open wide with shock and Harry sucks in a deep breath to tell him he’s alright but it ends up coming out as a shuddering sob instead. 

“Hey, hey, shhh it’s okay. It’s okay Haz” Louis starts murmuring, his voice low and soft, and somehow Harry finds himself sitting up cuddled in Louis lap, warm arms wrapped around him squeezing tight.

Harry hides his face in Louis’ jumper as he sobs shakily, “I’m so sorry, I’m fine.” 

“Hey, shh, it’s alright. Just cry okay? I’m right here love” Louis breathes, one hand gently running circles in the middle of Harry’s back, the other stroking his head. “It’s okay Hazza.”  He holds onto Harry fiercely and it’s as though the only thing keeping Harry from swirling away is the circle of his arms.  

Louis is just so so nice and that makes Harry cry even harder, the wall he’s been holding onto for so long shattering into a million pieces. He’s grabbing onto Louis like he might lose him, because Harry feels like he’s drowning and it’s been so long since someone held him while he cried. Since he had someone there to hold him above water. Harry sobs and shakes and thoroughly soaks the front of Louis jumper, but Louis doesn’t move an inch, tucking Harry tight up against his chest and murmuring little noises of comfort into his ear. 

He doesn’t know how long he cries for, but eventually his hitching breath starts to slow and he leans limply against Louis, spent. He feels warm lips being pressed to his temple. “Alright, love?” asks Louis tenderly. Harry isn’t used to this Louis, all soft words and soothing touches, all that burning energy totally focused on him. It throws him, but he’s just glad to have someone there, and Harry wonders if Louis is actually keeping all his pieces together by holding him right now. He hopes he never lets go. 

Harry just sniffles in response and Louis takes that as a cue to tighten his grip on Harry, ducking his head to rest on top of his. Harry can feel his chest moving in time with Louis’ now and there’s just something so right about it. It feels like Louis is breathing for him, leading him to a calm, steady rhythm. 

Louis doesn’t push Harry to move, just lets him stay in his lap for as long as he wants, letting the silence linger around them. Eventually Harry shifts to look at Louis through puffy red eyes and mumbles “Think I might need a tissue.” 

Louis laughs at that, and the sound feels like sunshine in Harry’s heart. “Just rest here, alright Haz?” he says softly, and carefully arranges Harry on the couch cushions. He springs up and Harry hears various noises drifting from the direction of the kitchen, but he’s got his eyes shut tight, concentrating on the rhythm of his breath. A few minutes later he feels Louis’ weight slide in next to him, and Harry rubs a hand across his face. Louis is smiling faintly at him and holding out of mug of tea with a box of tissues, looking at Harry like he’s something beautiful and delicate, not a snotty mess curled up on his sofa. Harry’s head is too soggy to understand what to make of those eyes but he takes the tissues and tea with a thank you, attempting to clean himself up. Louis just pulls him back into his lap, warm arms finding their way around his shoulders, and Harry softens at the touch. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Louis whispers finally, the question hanging gently. He’s not pushing, he never has. 

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, because if there was ever was a time he was going to talk about it, it’s here where things are solid and warm. “I just---god I don’t even know where to start,” he fumbles, head swimming with fuzzy thoughts that don’t have a beginning. Louis just hums in understanding, running his fingers evenly through his hair, waiting. 

“I grew up in Holmes Chapel, in Cheshire,” he starts. “And everything was sort of nice and easy y’know? Like except for when my parents got divorced but I was young enough that it didn’t really affect me too much. We had the loveliest house, with this great big backyard and I would spend hours out there, reading and just laying in the sun. I was just…happy. And free. You probably won’t believe it now but I was the most open person. Mum always said I wore my heart on my sleeve, and I guess I did. I never had any reason not to, y’know?” 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Louis nods quietly. 

“And when I got to high school I knew for sure that I was gay….But even that wasn’t hard, for some reason? My mum was always telling me she’d love me no matter what, so I never worried about telling her. And because I was just, like, this open person, I never saw any reason to hide who I was. I wasn’t popular, exactly, but I had my friends and they didn’t care,” 

He pauses, and focuses on his breaths for a minute, to feel the ground again.  

“I started dating this guy when I was fourteen. He was my year, tall. And I thought he was perfect. I just dove in headfirst, never even bothering to hold back any of my feelings. I thought he was the one…I really did. I loved him with everything I had, he knew everything about me.” 

Harry’s voice wavers, and he swallows hard. 

“We dated for all four years of high school. We were inseparable, we did _everything_ together. Every up and down in my life he was there for. I didn’t even know who I was without him? But I was so head over heels…. I never even stopped to think about it. 

“Senior year we applied for the same uni and everything of course. Everything felt so right. And then it all just…broke, somehow.” 

Harry watches a wet tear fall on his lap, making a perfect circle on his pants. 

“I walked in on him with my best friend, Angela. Like, I just came by his house to say hi, ‘cause that’s what we did, and I opened the door to the bedroom and there they just were? And I just didn’t understand. Because everything had been so perfect? He’d never said he was unhappy. We’d just gotten sundaes together earlier at the ice cream place and we’d laughed our heads off. And then now here he was fucking my best friend.” 

A sob rips out of him and he takes a steadying breath. Louis pulls him tight and hands him a tissue, which Harry presses under his eyes with shaking hands. 

“And when they saw me they just stopped and looked at me. They didn’t even say anything. They didn’t move. 

“And for the life of me I can’t get that image out of my head… Something inside me just kind of snapped? Right there, as I was standing at the doorway. It was like my whole conception of the world had been horrendously wrong. I just loved people with all I had and thought that they did the same. But it wasn’t true. He’d been pretending, and he didn’t even bother coming after me when I ran out. 

“I cried and my mum held me and all that. But it wasn’t just some breakup I could get over, y’know? It’s like, hard to explain, but it changed everything about me. Like some part of me just kind of shattered and I didn’t know how to put it back together. 

“I was supposed to go to uni in the fall but I just couldn’t, not with him there and everything. My mum wanted me to stay at home cause she knew I wasn’t alright. But I couldn’t, I had to get away from that place with all the memories. Everything just reminded me of how stupid I had been.” 

He stares down at the tissue in his hands, which he’s been ripping to tiny white shreds while talking. 

“I can’t--I’ve never--I don’t know how to do the in between, y’know? I never have. So when I couldn’t love everyone with my whole heart I kind of shut off. Shut out everyone. My friends left for uni and half-heartedly promised to stay in touch. But they didn’t like me as much now that I was different. 

“I moved to London ‘cause it’s big and far away. I started working at Strings because music’s like my thing? The thing that doesn’t change. 

“So, yeah. Now here I am.  It sounds stupid I guess, being all broken up over some high school romance? But it meant a lot to me. And I wish more than anything I could be that happy person again. But I just can’t.” 

Harry lets his words trail off into the heavy air and slumps against the arm of the sofa. He’s sitting cross legged facing Louis now, but doesn’t look up at those big blue eyes that he can feel trained on him, just toys with the tissue shreds. His heart is pounding and his legs are tingling with an ache to run away and never look back. Suddenly it seems too close, sitting here with Louis looking right at him, those broken pieces of him now as clear as the tissue scraps littering his lap. His cheeks burn, the words feeling stupid out loud. 

“Harry.” Louis brushes Harry’s chin with a finger and tips his face up to his, and Harry sucks in a breath when those cobalt eyes hit him. They’re creased at the corners in concern and Louis lets his hand fall to Harry’s neck, holding the back lightly so he can bring their eyes level. 

“You deserve everything. Please know that, you’re--you’re everything,” Louis whispers, and there’s none of his usual sarcasm in the words. His voice curls soft at the edges and Harry lets it wash over him, breathing in Louis’ sunshine. 

Harry finally lets himself really look at Louis, and they’re so close their noses are almost touching. He sees for the first time how thick Louis’ eyelashes are, the way that his eyebrows arch upwards in a perfect semi-circle. He wants to trace every plane and dip of Louis’ face, wants to cup the edge of his jaw in his palm, wants to run his thumbs over the rise of his cheekbones. 

“Harry, can I--would you--” Louis breathes, pink lips hovering millimeters from Harry’s, hesitating, unsure. 

And for the first time in a long time, Harry doesn’t think, he just presses his own mouth to Louis’, crushing the distance in a single swoop. Louis’ mouth is warm and tender, and tastes like toothpaste and the sugar cookies Harry brought him. Harry parts his lips and Louis slips his tongue between them, tracing circles achingly slowly in Harry’s mouth. He’s being gentle but as Harry lifts his hands to Louis’ hair, Harry feels his body pulsing, driving for more. He grabs the back of Louis head and pushes his mouth more firmly against his own, desperately searching to be surrounded by the taste of Louis. 

Harry sinks back against the couch and Louis parts his legs wide to straddle his hips on top of him. He dips his head to Harry’s neck, and begins lightly sucking small, careful marks on the exposed skin. Harry moans and squeezes his eyes shut, his hands fisting hard in the back of Louis’ shirt. He lifts his hips up to Louis’ and Louis grinds down, the friction overwhelming. Louis crashes his lips against Harry’s again and Harry sucks hungrily on Louis lower lip, making Louis pant out a low groan into his mouth. Their hips continue grinding in tandem, and Harry can feel that Louis is just as hard as he is. 

“Louis, I want--” he moans, distracted as Louis kisses the sensitive skin behind his ear with his burning, wet lips. 

Louis pulls back and stares questioningly into his eyes, his breath tight and ragged. “Are you sure?” he murmurs, tracing a thumb slowly down Harry’s cheek. 

“Yes. I want your mouth,” he pants, his eyes dark with desire, burning into Louis. 

Louis smiles and kisses him, and then dips to trail down his body, lips caressing his neck, stomach and finally just above the line of his boxers. Harry shudders as Louis slowly unbuttons his pants and snaps the elastic of his boxers against his hips. Harry is throbbing with want and every second feels torturous, until Louis finally pulls his boxers all the way down and takes him in his mouth. 

Harry’s hands grip blindly to the couch cushions as Louis licks the tip of his cock and then takes him fully into his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he sucks earnestly. Harry can feel every touch Louis makes with his plump lips and swollen tongue and the sensation is so overwhelming all he can do is groan out a pained _Louis_ into the thick air. Louis moves up and down his cock, sucking more quickly and harder until Harry sees stars fluttering at the edge of his vision and his toes curl violently as he teeters on the edge. “Gonna come,” he barely pants out, hips bucking upwards wildy, and Louis sucks one final time on the head of Harry’s cock before Harry comes into his mouth, shuddering with release, and Louis swallows cleanly. Louis has his own hand moving on his cock and Harry grasps him in his hands, and it only takes a few pulls before Louis grinds into Harry and comes with a shaky moan on his stomach. 

Louis collapses next to him, both of their chests heaving with ragged breath, stars still dancing in the corners of Harry’s eyes lightly. He feels the delicious tension drifting from him, replaced by an easy, relaxed peace that courses through his veins. He’s only been with one other person, sure, but it didn’t even come close to this. Louis’ breath slows next to him and he presses a long kiss to the side of Harry’s mouth.

“Okay, love?” he murmurs, and Harry nods his head against Louis’, their mussed hair mixing easily. 

“Perfect,” Harry whispers, and he swears he’s floating.  

Louis kisses him again and then stumbles up, reaching out a hand to pull Harry up from the couch. With an arm loose and warm around his waist, Louis guides them to the bathroom and turns up the shower full blast, letting steam cover the glass walls in a grey fog. They slip into the piping stream together, and Harry sighs as he feels the water caress his already relaxed body. Louis presses his slick chest up against Harry’s from behind, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder. He grabs a bottle of shower gel that smells like strawberries, and begins lathering Harry up, tracing the curves of his body slowly with soft hands. Once he finishes Harry’s body, Louis reaches up and suds Harry’s hair with shampoo, gently working the curls into a thick foam. Harry closes his eyes, relishing the feeling of the hot water slipping over him, and most of all Louis’s fingers scratching at his scalp. Louis rinses and conditions his hair, being careful not to get any into his eyes, and kisses him on the neck at the base of his wet curls when he finishes. 

Harry does the same for Louis, using his oversized hands to massage Louis as he rubs the shower gel all over him. He explores the planes of Louis body as he goes, discovering the delicacy of his ankles, the pleasing fullness of his bum and firmness in the muscles at the base of his shoulders. While he gently washes Louis’ hair, he thinks it feels like cotton candy, and tells that to Louis, who laughs so hard he almost inhales a lungful of water. 

They dry off in fluffy white towels, and Louis laces his slightly pruney fingers with Harry’s and pulls him to the bedroom, where he digs out a pair of too-big pyjama pants for Harry. Harry looks awkwardly at the flannel pants as Louis holds them out to him, an unasked question lingering in the back of his throat. Louis just sighs and rolls his eyes, saying “You’re staying the night, Haz, okay?”, but pulling him toward him for a gentle kiss. “I want you to stay,” Louis murmurs into Harry’s ear, stroking his dark wet hair. 

Harry takes the pants. They climb in together underneath Louis fluffy duvet, and Louis curls his body around Harry, and even though Harry is bigger, it works. Harry feels warmer than he has in years, and he thinks it has less to do with the shower and more to do with the arms wrapped tightly around his waist smelling of strawberry. For once he feels his breath slow and his eyes close without any racing thoughts pounding in his head, and he sinks into the deepest sleep he’s had in a long time. 

 

+++ 

 

Harry has 32 missed calls. They’re all from Louis.  

He stares up at the ceiling from his position sprawled out on his bed. His roommates are arguing again, he can hear their shouts echoing through the thin walls of his bedroom. His phone vibrates. He rolls over. 

It’s been a week since he spent the night at Louis’ where everything had been perfect, and sometimes now when he falls asleep he still remembers the smell of strawberry shower gel. He hasn’t spoken to Louis, hasn’t seen him, isn’t answering his texts, and Harry knows it’s not fair. The only thing he’d texted was a short _I’m okay_ after Louis’ voicemails had grown increasingly frantic when he didn’t respond. 

He probably should have just texted “I’m alive”, because he’s really so incredibly far from okay. He drowning, trying to fight through the roaring blur inside his head and barely has enough air to make though the day. It was so nice, being with Louis. Louis looking at him like he wanted Harry to be okay, Louis panting against him, Louis sleeping with his nose pressed into Harry’s back. 

When Harry had woken up that morning, Louis was still wrapped around him from behind, his breath falling over him in warm puffs. Harry’d extricated himself slowly, all the looseness he’d felt the night before replaced by a heavy, aching weight in his chest. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t just lie in someone’s arms like other people. He didn’t have any more parts of himself to give away. 

So he left, as much as he rationally knew that was unfair and probably sad, it’s all he can do. All he knows is that his pieces are held together with duct tape and it took a long time for him to get there. He won’t survive breaking apart again. He’s not strong enough. 

The thing is, Harry’s weak. He was weak to fall apart when his boyfriend cheated on him, he was weak for crying in Louis’ arms like a child. Most of all, he’s too weak to love Louis like he deserves. Louis deserves someone whole, someone with a heart that’s more alive than dead, someone who makes Louis feel bright like he does for Harry. Harry can’t be that person. 

He feels a tear slide down the side of his face and doesn’t bother wiping it away. You’re supposed to move on, he knows. You’re supposed to get over it and open yourself up to other people again. Harry doesn’t understand why he can’t do that. 

His phone rings again and he doesn’t answer. He just curls his knees up to chest, hugging them tight, wondering if he’s shattering again. Wondering if he’s going to make it. 

+++ 

 

Harry is staring at the frozen food section. An empty grocery basket hangs limply from one arm as he considers peas versus broccoli. He really doesn’t care, at all. It’s all the same, every plastic bag in this aisle with bits of frost on them, every faceless person pushing a cart past--everything’s coated in a dull haze that makes him feel underwater. Harry misses colors. He misses the sound of Louis’ laugh, the way it rises high and burns through everything around him.  

He grabs the bag of peas after a moment and lopes off down the aisle, looking down at his feet while he walks, focusing on the rhythmic click his boots make on the linoleum. Rhythms are easy. 

It’s probably a bad idea though, because suddenly he’s knocking into someone and they stumble, dropping their basket loudly on the tile. Various colorful packets of ramen scatter across the floor and Harry looks up, red, already starting to apologize profusely. 

His words drop from his mouth, however, when he finds himself standing face to face with Louis. It’s been two weeks since he saw Louis, and Harry had pushed their memories to a gray corner of his mind, and yet here he is, staring at Harry with wide eyes. It takes a second for Harry to notice the crutches Louis is leaning on but then he does and takes a step back in surprise. Louis is wearing a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants, he’s got dark half-moons under his eyes, and one of his ankles is cased in a thick purple cast. Most of all, Louis looks tired. As tired as Harry feels. 

Harry bends down and silently collects the ramen, keeping his eyes focused on arranging the packets in neat stacks next to a bag of crisps in the basket. He straightens and wordlessly holds the basket out to Louis, but Louis doesn’t take it. 

“So that’s it then?” Louis says, so quietly the words are almost lost in the rattling of carts around them. His eyes look infinitely sad and bricks drop in Harry’s stomach as he realizes he’s the one who put that look there. “Are you going to say anything, Haz?” Louis presses, and Harry flinches at the old nickname like he’s been slapped. 

Harry just stares down at deep creases his boots. There are a thousand words to say, but they collide against each other, bouncing around his head in a dizzying circle.  The sand is rising, the the walls of the supermarket closing in on him menacingly, hundreds of eyes ghosting over him and flicking away, like they know he’s empty.  He tries to remember the pattern of his breaths and his legs ache, wanting to run toward Louis and out the door at the same time. So he stands still and stares at the creases on his boots. 

“It’s alright, Harry. I understand,” Louis says after a moment, and Harry’s gaze lifts cautiously. Louis has a little crease between his eyebrows, and he stretches his arm out like he’s going to reach out for him, but then he just lets it fall limply to his side. He tilts his head to the side while staring at Harry, his eyes full and confused. Harry thinks Louis screaming at him would be easier than this. Anything would be easier than this. 

Louis makes to leave, but he can’t seem to figure out how to maneuver the basket and crutches at the same time. He nearly drops the basket trying to slide it over his arm, wrecking Harry’s neat ramen stack and wobbling dangerously to the left side. Harry watches, biting his lip, and before his mind can catch up with the movement, he’s grabbing the basket back from Louis. 

“I’ll carry it,” he says, simply, not quite looking at Louis. 

He can feel Louis’ gaze on him, but Louis just rearranges himself on the crutches and after a beat murmurs, “Okay.” 

They maneuver the store slowly, Harry with baskets in either hand and Louis fumbling behind on his crutches. They don’t talk, just Louis telling Harry what to put in the basket and Harry muttering “watch out” when they skirt around a puddle of spilled orange juice. There isn’t anger between them, nor awkwardness exactly, just thousands of unsaid words that Harry doesn’t know how to organize into sentences. Louis doesn’t push him for an explanation and Harry is glad, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Their hands brush while pulling items out of the baskets at checkout, and Harry jerks away like he’s been shocked. Louis just looks at him, crease between his eyebrows deepening. 

Harry loads both of their groceries into the back of his car, quietly insisting on driving Louis home instead of him taking a cab. Louis doesn’t put up much of a fight, and starts fiddling with the radio as Harry drives. He finds a classic rock station and blasts it into the silence, Harry finally relaxing an inch when he hears the familiar sound of “Paint it Black” swirling around them. He can see Louis watching him from the corner of his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. 

Back at Louis’ flat, Harry unpacks all of Louis’ groceries for him while he settles on the couch, propping up his ankle with a pillow on the coffee table. Harry finishes and awkwardly sits down on the edge of the couch, keeping a measured distance. Louis has his head leaned back and his eyes closed. He looks beautiful and exhausted and Harry has to clasp his hands together to keep from reaching out to push the fringe from his eyes. 

“What happened?” Harry asks, and he thinks it’s kind of ridiculous that he hasn’t even asked yet. 

“Fell on the steps outside my flat. Ice and all that,” answers Louis, not opening his eyes. His cheeks are pale and his eyes are squinted at the corners. 

“Does it hurt?” Harry asks quietly. 

“Like a bitch, yeah,” laughs Louis, but its dark and humorless. Harry would do anything to put the glow back in his voice. 

“Can I get you something?” 

“Actually there’s a bottle of pain meds on the counter, would you mind grabbing me it? Not used to being up and about.” 

Harry springs up to grab the orange bottle and a tall glass of water and watches as Louis takes a pill and downs the water. He looks like someone’s ripped all the light out of him and somehow that hurts Harry more than anything else he’s felt these past few weeks. 

“Lou, I just--I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this…I’m sorry I’m not the person you’re looking for,” Harry murmurs, looking down at his hands in his lap. He picks an invisible piece of lint off his black pants, voice wavering. “I wish I was different.” 

Harry lets his head hang down, squeezing his eyes shut and imagining himself whirling, spinning away--away from his body, from the heaviness in the middle of his chest, from the burning tears prickling at the corners of his vision. He’s trapped in it all and it’s suffocating him every second of every day. Cloudy visions of him and Louis stretched out in sun-drenched fields, laughing and carefree, circle around his head and the could-have-beens are as sharp as knives in his chest. 

A hand rubs his shoulder and his head snaps up at the unexpected touch. Louis is scooting over closer to him, awkwardly maneuvering his ankle and the pillow along the coffee table. He levels himself with Harry’s eyes, and the air crackles around them electrified by all the unsaid words and withheld touches between. “That’s the thing, Harry,” Louis murmurs after a moment, not breaking his gaze. “You are what I’m looking for. All of your broken shit, all of your pieces, all of you. You’re what I want.” Louis looks at Harry like he really sees him, like he understands the frayed duct tape stringing him together, like he can feel every frantic beat of his heart. 

“I don’t know if I can--I don’t know how to do...it--this, any more Louis. I’m broken,” Harry explains shakily, looking back down again, roughly swiping a hand under his eyes. “I’m not the same person I was.” 

Louis stretches out and strokes a thumb over Harry’s cheek, catching a tear, and Harry lets the feeling wash over him, Louis’ fingers as hot as the sun. “I’m not asking you to be the same person you were with him, Haz,” he says quietly. “I’m not asking you to be anything at all. All I’m talking about is right now, you and me. You, as you are, all of the good and bad, and me with my fucked up ankle and terrible housekeeping,” 

Harry chokes out a laugh at that and then Louis grins that radiant sort of sparkling smile again and Harry’s stomach does a wild flip. He looks into the sky colored eyes inches from his and something about the way Louis at him, talks to him, holds him has always been different. He reaches out a trembling hand toward Louis’, and Louis takes it in his lap, twining their fingers together like home. 

“Just you and me?” Harry asks finally, moving his thumb over Louis’ knuckles. 

“Always,” Louis breathes and cups Harry’s face with a hand, pressing his lips to his forehead and then to his lips, wiping away his tears as he does. Harry’s floating up and away again, but as he focuses on the warmth spilling from Louis’ palm into his own he realizes that he’s finally found something solid to hold onto. 

They fall asleep on the couch, Louis knocked out from his meds and curled around Harry. They sleep heavily until light breaks the next morning, and for once Harry doesn’t get up to leave. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Kudos/comments mean everything to me :) xx 
> 
> Please check out my tumblr: [foreverhazboo](http://www.foreverhazboo.tumblr.com)


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